


a stained glass variation of the truth

by redledgers



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, Vignette, Wings, this is for you caly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25906606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redledgers/pseuds/redledgers
Summary: it lives in your pocket until the edges are worn, covered in the tears you never shed
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	a stained glass variation of the truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [incalyscent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/incalyscent/gifts).



> _"and if the devil was ever to see you, he’d kiss your eyes and repent” - farouq jwaydeh_

Her wings are the color of oil, slick and iridescent, and you beg to preen them, to press your forehead against her spine between them because this is the holiest you’ve ever felt since you went crashing through the gates of Heaven. They spread wide in the golden light that filters through stained glass windows and the edges are rimmed with holy fire; her hair is rimmed in the only halo you have ever wanted to claim. 

You say her name as a blessing, a benediction, a plea, press fingertips coated in holy water against her lips as if it will redeem you both. You trace the patterns of your sin in the vanes of feathers and let them spread lightning through your fingertips.

It fades, like it always does, scattered into the wind like ash and smoke.

*

Your back aches. The scars run deeper than you will ever admit, carved through your being and left to rot while putrid smoke fills your nostrils. You have lost your religion, though you do not know it yet, and something hollow grows inside until there is nothing left but the shell of a being who is neither divine nor infernal.

Hallowed ground burns, but not the way the storybooks say it will. They spit upon your name as if you are nothing more than dirt. Later you raise your belt against them until they can no longer scream. You wish stained glass was not defiled by the ways of men, and when you bring a piece with you, it lives in your pocket until the edges are worn, covered in the tears you never shed.

Your new religion hides in the dew between her legs, and you will beg for it until you have no more breath left to give.

*

Sunlight paints the stone gold, and in this hallowed space you can only focus on the echoes of her footsteps, can only focus on the rippling of the holy water that fills the basin beside you. When she stops walking, you can feel the heat of her body behind you and the press of her touch against your shoulder.

Her skin is slick with oil, wings wanting, and yours do too; they quiver and beg for her touch, for your salvation. You bury your fingers in soft down, catch the sound of her moans in your mouth and keep them there for an eternity you would burn for. She is sweet blasphemy and you find forgiveness in the curve of her ribs.

Your bed is holy ground, and you have consecrated it with more than just your sweat and blood.

*

Dust clings to your sandals, but you welcome it even as the sun beats hot on your skin. It hides the ash until you can cool your feet in the Jordan. They preach redemption, repentance, but you find no home for those in your heart, no space in your tired body. You tried though.

Candlelight is the closest you have to the stars, even now when smog chokes out their light. It chokes you too, and you feel like you are drowning in ash again and again. Her forgiveness is tailor-made for you and you don’t like how that feels at first. 

You miss the shadow of wings, but how could you have known to look? 


End file.
